


Death and Taxes

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen, Humor, Serial: s051 Spearhead From Space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-23
Updated: 2010-02-23
Packaged: 2018-07-15 00:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7198727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor faces the terrible foe: UK Immigration.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and Taxes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

He couldn’t really see what all the fuss was about. But the Doctor had never been a fan of bureaucracy, or as he preferred to call it, red tape. The trouble was, the validity of his papers drawn up by UNIT had been challenged once too often, so now here he was, at the Department of Immigration, sat at a desk staring at a faceless employee, whose name plate gave the name of Alfred Bunt. “Now, as I understand the situation, sir, you have been residing in the United Kingdom for over six months.”

“Yes,” replied the Doctor for the fifth time. “And as I have already explained, I have a full set of papers giving my identity, national insurance number and anything else you might enquire about.”

“Except that there is no evidence of these papers,” Mr Bunt stated. “Are you able to provide actual proof of your existence?”

The Doctor blinked at this, his frustration replaced by amusement. “Well, I am sitting here, talking to you, aren’t I?”

“Yes, there is that,” Bunt reluctantly agreed. “However, there is still the matter of establishing your status in this country. Do you intend your residency to be a permanent one?”

The Doctor chose his words carefully before replying. “For the time being, yes. Although that may change at some stage in the future.”

“Really.” Mr Bunt didn’t seem the slightest bit interested. “So, do you have a permanent address, or a place of work?”

“Yes,” the Doctor replied. “Or rather, no. You see, I’m currently in the employ of a top-secret military organisation called UNIT.”

“I see,” the man noted.

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” the Doctor continued. “As for residency, I do have a cottage in the country, which is in my name.”

“Ah yes.” Mr Bunt drew out a sheet of paper from his file. “This is a copy of your contract, under the name of Dr John Smith. You took possession of this property just over a year ago, correct?”

The Doctor nodded. “That’s right, old chap.”

“The problem, Dr Smith,” he explained, “is that without your identity papers, there’s no proof that you’re the owner of said property.” 

“You are joking?!” The Doctor gaped.

“Without proof of identity, your current status is as a General Visitor,” Mr Bunt told him. “That allows you to stay in the UK for six months. However, purchase of property would indicate intentions of a longer stay than that time. Without proof of identity, Dr Smith, your residency is compromised, to say the least.”

The Doctor sank back in his seat. He couldn’t really blame Mr Bunt – he was just doing his job, and laying out the facts, however unpleasant. “There must be something you can do, if only as a temporary measure.”

“Could you not return to your natural home, and come back at a later date when all the paperwork is cleared?”

“Ah, no,” the Doctor replied. “I’m what you might call persona non-gratis there.”

“I see.” Mr Bunt considered. “There is one option, Dr Smith. You can apply for permission to stay here permanently,” he offered. “It’s known as Indefinite Leave To Remain. I can draw up the necessary forms…?”

“Yes, please do, Mr Bunt,” the Doctor responded. “Thank you.”

Mr Bunt gave a slight nod. “This will take a few days to formalise. You will be contacted once the papers have been agreed.” He retired to a rear office, leaving the Doctor to consider his fate. 

He left the office in despondent mood. He could hardly believe it - having fought against Daleks, Autons and Ice Warriors, the Doctor’s fate now lay in the hands of a government official called Bunt.

*****

In an office no more than a stone’s throw away from the one the Doctor had just left, a Colonel sat staring across at the official opposite. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Colonel.”

“I must confess, I was intrigued,” he replied. “Given that I’m rarely in one place for too long, I’m surprised your letter reached me.”

“Well, this office doesn’t like to leave matters long-standing for too long – not if we can help it.” The nameplate gave his name as Ronald Burk. “Now, to business. I understand that you were briefly a director of a factory, being run by a Mr Rex Farrell.”

The Colonel nodded. “Ah yes, poor Mr Farrell. His passing was such a tragic accident.”

“Of course,” Mr Burk agreed. “Very sad. However, it’s the company itself that has come to our attention. Our understanding is that new equipment was brought in to fully automate the running of the factory. As a result, new lines and promotions were developed, such as plastic dolls and daffodils.”

“Quite so,” said the Colonel. “Under my guidance, Farrell Plastics turned over a very healthy profit in a comparatively short time. I hope,” he added, “that nothing untoward is being suggested.”

“Not in terms of the company itself, no,” Mr Burk replied. “The concern is with regard to its former employees.” An enquiring look from the Colonel prompted Mr Burk to continue. “According to company records, the entire workforce was laid off, with no explanation.”

The Colonel shrugged. “Business is business,” he said. “Those men and women at Farrell Plastics were under Rex Farrell’s employ. They’re not my responsibility.”

Mr Burk shook his head. “I’m sorry to contradict you, Colonel, but with Rex Farrell’s untimely death, those men and women became your responsibility. You see, the workforce received not one penny of compensation. And, even though your time with the company was relatively short, the workforce can claim unfair dismissal against you, as sole director of Farrell Plastics.”

“Now, look here,” the Colonel protested. “I can’t allow myself to become a scapegoat for other people’s problems. I have much more important issues of global significance to deal with.” He stood, making as if to leave.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Mr Burk responded. “I hope you feel more amenable once you’ve reclaimed your horsebox.”

The Colonel stared at Mr Burk. “My Horsebox. What do you mean?”

Burk sat back in his chair, as the Colonel returned to his. “It was felt by this department that you would be unwilling to co-operate, at least initially. So it was decided that the impounding of your horsebox would perhaps bring you round to our way of thinking. And it’s probably a good thing we did.” Mr Burk glanced at the papers before him. “It appears that you haven’t paid any Road Tax on this vehicle, and there is no Tax Disc on your windscreen. It wouldn’t do to have an illegal vehicle on Her Majesty’s roads, would it?” He smiled. “At this precise moment, your horsebox is very safely stored in our depot. I can let you have the address – as soon as an initial payment of goodwill to the Farrell Plastics workforce is guaranteed.”

The Colonel held his temper in check. “This is blackmail.”

“Colonel, we have your details on file. If compensation to those men and women is not immediately forthcoming, we will take steps to ensure that payment is made. And at the same time, you can bring in your documentation for your horsebox – your driving licence, that sort of thing.”

“But you don’t seem to understand,” the Colonel insisted. “You must listen to me. You must obey me.” His eyes locked with those of Mr Burk, as if to reach into his soul. 

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” Burk replied, apparently unaffected, “but while you’re in this department, you have to abide by our rules. You’ll be contacted in few days.” With that, Mr Burk rose from his chair, and stepped into an adjoining office. The interview was at an end.

The Colonel couldn’t quite believe it. He’d come to this department out of idle curiosity, and now he was faced with having to pay thousands of pounds to a workforce he barely knew. And all because of a man called Burk.

A figure stepped through the office doorway, and approached him. “I thought it was you – Colonel Masters.”

The man looked up in surprise. “My dear Doctor,” said the Master. “I must say, I hadn’t expected to see you in a place like this.”

“Likewise,” the Doctor replied. “Of all the places and times we’ve met, I never thought to see you in… wait a minute.” He checked the legend above the door, and allowed himself a brief chuckle. “What are you doing here?”

The Master scowled. “It’s all a complete misunderstanding. I tried to explain to this officious idiot… well, he’s gone now.”

“Apparently. I take it he was immune to your usual powers of persuasion?”

The Master shrugged helplessly. “I’ve never come up against a mind so strong.”

“Yes, well when it comes to the process of red tape, there’s nothing that can deter them from their work,” the Doctor observed. “More than their job’s worth, as the saying goes.” He thought for a moment. “Are you waiting here for anything in particular?”

“Not really,” the Master replied. “To be honest, I’m not quite sure what to do.”

The Doctor came to a decision. “Look, we both seem to be at a loose end. Are you doing anything for the next hour or so?”

The Master couldn’t quite hide his surprise. “Are you suggesting a truce, Doctor?”

“For the moment. I’ve heard they do a very nice cup of tea in this part of town.”

*****

The Master sighed. “Honestly Doctor, I don’t know how the people of Earth manage to live their lives with all these rules and regulations, and their arcane forms.”

“I suppose it makes sense to them,” said the Doctor. “After all, they’ve lived here far longer than we have. They accept it because it’s the normal thing to do. Besides, where else in the known universe could you find a better cup of tea?”

“True.” The Master took a sip. “Earl Grey, I believe. Most invigorating.” The two of them were now inside a rather grand Tea Shoppe, its plush surroundings helping to ease the tensions of the day. From their table by the window, the two Time Lords could watch the world go by. 

The Master glanced out of the window, and his eyes widened in surprise. The Doctor followed his gaze, to see a protesting figure being bundled out of the same government building they had visited that morning. “Well, there’s gratitude,” the figure ranted. “After all I could have done for your planet!” 

The Doctor and the Master watched the spectacle, unseen, as the figure brushed down his cassock and strode away. “Was that…?”

“The Meddling Monk? Yes, I believe it was.” The Master chuckled. “I wonder what he’s been in there for?”

“Undisclosed earnings, I should imagine,” the Doctor replied. “Especially when you think of the scams he’s pulled over the centuries.” 

“Indeed. There is a saying on this planet, Doctor,” the Master recalled, “that the only two certain things in life are death and taxes.” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he continued. “At this moment, I’m not sure which is worse.”

The Doctor smiled. “Yes, I know what you mean.” He was just about to pour another cup, when a young woman flew into the Tea Shoppe, scattering papers before her. The Doctor moved to help her. “Hello, Jo. What are you doing here?”

“Saving your neck, as usual,” she said, grinning. “We found your identity papers, Doctor. They were stuck behind the draw of the filing cabinet at UNIT.”

“Well done, Jo,” he said, gathering them up. “We’ll just finish our tea, and then get things sorted out. Why don’t you join us?”

She beamed. “Don’t mind if I…” Her face fell at the sight of the Master. “What’s he doing here?”

The Master rose from his chair, his smile welcoming. “I’m delighted to see you too, Miss Grant. The Doctor and I are just taking our ease after a very trying day for both of us.”

“That’s right,” the Doctor told her. “Nothing sinister. No threats, nothing. Just civilised conversation and a welcome cup of tea.” He paused. “Are you all right, Jo?”

It was one of those rare occasions when Jo Grant was lost for words.


End file.
